


if only he wasn't Stiles Stilinski

by unholy_obsessions



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Mentions of Canonical Character Death, Not Beta Read, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Self-Esteem Issues, Stiles Stilinski Needs a Hug, i don't even know what this is, just a lot of stiles feels, self-deprecating thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:48:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29956371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unholy_obsessions/pseuds/unholy_obsessions
Summary: At night, when no one is watching and no one can hear, Stiles allows his thoughts to take over and they aren't always good. There is only so much someone can do when the only things they can think about are the thousands of "if only" in their life.
Relationships: Past Allison Argent/Scott McCall - Relationship
Kudos: 5





	if only he wasn't Stiles Stilinski

Stiles cries himself to sleep that night, tired of the constant feeling of uselessness. In reality, he knows that he’s needed, that he’s _wanted_ , but when he’s laying wide awake, staring up at the ceiling of his dark room, the light shimmer of moonlight from the window casting an almost melancholic glow on the room, he wonders if that maybe isn’t true. 

He’s the reason their lives are so fucked up now. It’s undeniable, a fact of life that despite his best efforts, is ingrained into his brain. 

If only he hadn’t been so _fucking_ curious, then Scott wouldn’t have been bitten. Why did he want to find a dead body? What kind of sick person finds that thrilling, _joyful_ even? It’s a sickening thought, looking back. 

If only he hadn’t been such a coward and told his dad everything from the beginning, he wouldn’t be in this mess. Maybe his dad wouldn’t look at him with such disappointment, with such disgust that conveyed what the Sheriff thought of Stiles very clearly. _Why did I have to get stuck with him as a son?_

If only he had taken the bite when Peter offered it. He wanted it, God, how he wanted to not feel weak anymore, but he declined the offer because of some stupid reasoning. Because he wanted to keep his god damn humanity. It’s ironic now, and maybe even slightly hysterical, considering everything he’s done since then. He would have been able to protect himself against Gerard, would have been able to save Boyd and Erica because they deserved to live. They deserved to live more than anyone he knows, certainly more than him. 

If only Stiles hadn’t been so vulnerable, so self-sacrificing, then he wouldn’t have opened the door. Deaton warned him, he should have listened. But he didn’t, overconfident as always. He always did feel like he was bigger than the world. As a result, he allowed himself to drown in darkness for a man that refused to look him in the eye most days. 

If only he hadn’t let him in. He should have fought it off, found a way to stop him before it got to hurt anyone else. Then Allison would be alive. Then Scott wouldn’t have to have held the love of his life as she took her last breath. Aiden would still be here, he deserved to be part of the pack, and Lydia wouldn’t have lost her best friend and lover all in the span of forty-eight hours. 

He pauses at the last one. He remembers being the Nogitsune. The power that came with it. The chaos _he_ created and how he relished in it. No matter how many times he is told that _it wasn’t him_ , he knows it was. It was his body doing the killing, his mind doing the planning. The Nogitsune simply served as a catalyst for the destruction he was always destined to cause. 

And he knows when the sun rises over the horizon, shining light and hope into every crook and crevice of his room, the thoughts would be gone and he will go about his day as if everything is fine. As if he isn’t a murdering psychopath that daydreams about the havoc he created, about what he is still capable of. Ignoring the lingering, worried looks of his friends and loved ones. When morning came he would attempt to forget the thoughts that plagued him the night before and even though it’s futile he would try to grip onto any strand of normalcy he could. 

But right now, when sleep refuses to consume him and his brain just cannot seem to slow down, shooting thought, after thought into consciousness, he allows himself to entertain them. He allows himself to hate who he has become. He can fake happiness when he needs to, but in the darkness and safety of his blankets, he lets the walls fall and the tears cascade. 

Tomorrow he can pretend along with everyone else that he doesn’t hate Stiles Stilinski. For now, he continues to look up at the ceiling, tracing patterns with his mind that he envisions are colored with his blood.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what this is. I just wrote it and posted it without thinking much of it because of my own spiral into my self-deprecating thoughts. 
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are appreciated :))


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